


Introvert Club Prompt 17 - First Date Jitters

by veeagainst



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, wolfstar, wolfstar introvert prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:25:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11919900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veeagainst/pseuds/veeagainst
Summary: Sirius knows what he wants re:Remus, and is terrified that he's about to get it.





	Introvert Club Prompt 17 - First Date Jitters

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing for Introvert Club!

‘What are you doing?’

 

Sirius jumps and stabs himself in the eye with the eyeliner he stole from James’s cousin Celia.

 

‘Are you putting on _makeup_?’ James demands. ‘Sirius Black, what the _fuck_ are you doing?’

 

‘Uh…’

 

‘Is this for a girl?’ James continues, triumphant in his discovery.

 

‘I doubt it,’ Peter says, _sotto voce_ , behind him in the doorway.

 

‘Fuck off,’ Sirius says. He turns back to the mirror. Now he has a huge black line at a forty-five degree angle from the corner of his eye. He looks like half a Cleopatra. ‘What time is it?’

 

‘Almost nine.’

 

‘Shit.’ Sirius gives up that eye for lost and starts in on the other one. His hand is shaking so badly that he tries to hold it with the other, but that one seems to be shaking too.

 

‘Need help?’ Peter asks. He sounds _way_ too knowing.

 

‘No,’ Sirius snarls. He’s become a raccoon. He should have asked Celia for tips.

 

‘Ok, but really, what are you doing?’

 

‘I’m going to a gig.’ Sirius grabs a cloth and starts trying to wipe the eyeliner out of the corner of his eye. It smears, but does not disappear. ‘Uhm, does this stuff not come off?’

 

‘Why would I know, mate?’ James asks. He leans over the sink, staring at Sirius’s eyes. It’s uncomfortable. ‘You look like a giant panda.’

 

Sirius grits his teeth. His eye is now getting red from wiping it with the cloth. He’s going to look like he has an infection.

 

‘How does going to a gig explain why you’re putting on makeup?’ Peter asks. He wets the corner of the cloth and hands it to him.

 

‘It’s the style now,’ Sirius says, ‘not that I’d expect you to know that.’ He points to a Muggle music magazine on the floor that features several eyelinered punks on its cover.

 

‘Where did you get that?’ James asks.

 

‘You’re going to a Muggle gig?’ Peter asks.

 

Sirius doesn’t have time for this. He manages to stab himself in the other eye, uses his shaking, sweating fingers to rub around the mess, and steps away from the mirror. The further he gets from it, the harder it is to tell what a shitshow he is. He collects his leather jacket from the floor, grabs the magazine, says, ‘See you later, bellends,’ and leaves them behind in James’s room.

 

A Floo trip later and he’s running down the streets of London, his heart beating much harder than is reasonable. He gets near the pub where the gig is and slows, his heart rate accelerating in opposite measure.

 

Yesterday had been an ordinary summer hols day of lounging around James’s parents’ house, playing exploding snap, and pining for one of his male best mates who he hadn’t seen in weeks.

 

The pining after Remus thing isn’t new; he’s been doing it in some form or another for nearly six years. What’s new is that he’s gotten the strange idea that Remus might, maybe, but probably not, but _maybe_ , be pining _for him_. Ever since the start of the holidays, they’ve been trading letters that have gotten increasingly, well, he hates to use the word but synonyms always feel forced: _serious_.

 

So when he’d gotten a letter yesterday that said, essentially, _hey don’t tell James and Peter but you should come to a gig in London with me tomorrow, here’s the details, either be there or don’t, but I’ll be there_ …

 

First, his heart had stopped beating normally, and it hasn’t fixed itself yet.

 

Second, he’d wanked eight times since, each time imagining some wildly improbably scenario where he winds up with Remus’s cock inside some part of his body.

 

Third, he’s had a low-grade stomach ache for twenty four hours.

 

Fourth, he’s had a range of other physical symptoms, including insomnia and profuse palm-sweating.

 

Fifth, he’d snuck into town and stolen a Muggle music magazine from Boots to know what to wear.

 

Sixth, he’d snuck into a teenage girl’s room, rooted through her bag, and stolen her makeup.

 

Seventh, he’d repeatedly lied to James and Peter.

 

And eighth, he’s in Muggle London, alone and terrified.  

 

He looks wildly around the street. The pub – the gig is upstairs – is bursting with people, and raucous sound is pouring out of the opened windows. Sirius thinks if he doesn’t see Remus in a minute he’ll leave – he’ll just count the seconds – he doesn’t know what he’ll tell James and Peter, but anything will be better than this, he’s so scared he wants to vomit or fall down or –

 

‘Sirius?’

 

He mostly freezes, aside from the instant erection. He wishes desperately that he’d worn less tight trousers.

 

‘Sirius.’ Remus sounds relieved. Sirius turns. Remus smiles, dazzlingly. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ he says. ‘I figured that not telling James would make this a no.’

 

‘I can do things on my own,’ Sirius says, which is mostly a lie, but fucking hell Remus is more gorgeous than he’d remembered – and he’d remembered quite a lot. Maybe Remus has gotten more gorgeous over the summer.

 

‘Shall we go inside?’ Remus asks, sweetly.

 

There’s no clear indication that Remus means this as anything but a punk gig between friends. The room is hot and claustrophobic and they get thrown together repeatedly by the crowd, and Remus keeps putting his hands on Sirius’s body, but Sirius can’t tell if it’s incidental or accidental or intentional or…

 

‘I’m going to the toilet,’ Remus says in his ear, his breath hot and wet in the heavy air of the room.

 

Sirius thinks there’s some medical concern with an erection lasting as long as his has, but he’s not about to leave Remus to go to hospital. He’s had a few drinks now, liquid courage and all that, so he says, ‘I’ll come with you.’

 

They go down the stairs to the men’s. As far as pub toilets on a Saturday night go, they’re not terrible. Remus pulls out his wand.

 

‘What are you doing?’ Sirius asks, alarmed. ‘Won’t you-‘

 

‘I haven’t got a trace,’ Remus says sweetly. ‘Otherwise I’d set it off once a month.’

 

‘How did I never know that?’ Sirius asks.

 

‘I’ve never done underage magic that isn’t a transformation before,’ Remus says. He points the wand at the door. ‘But I think I fancy some privacy now. Colloportus.’

 

They look at each other. Sirius is so nervously aroused that he can barely see straight; there’s two shaky Remuses in his double vision. Then Remus walks to a urinal and unzips. Sirius looks away, his heart beating loud enough to drown out the music upstairs, until he hears Remus washing his hands. He looks up; Remus is watching him intently. He doesn’t know what to do.

 

‘Want to get out of here?’ he asks, mouth drier than the Sahara. ‘It’s, um, hot. In here. We could, uh, walk.’

 

‘Sure,’ Remus says.

 

They go up Primrose Hill. Sirius knows that there’s a view of London out there glittering in the dark but all he can see is Remus, even when he’s not looking directly at him.

 

Near the top, Remus flops backward onto the grass, spreading out on the ground and patting the space beside himself. Sirius sits, carefully, and Remus puts a hand on his shoulder and tugs him down. Sirius finds himself lying in the crook of Remus’s arm. Is this affectionate? Is it friendly? They’re touchy friends, in this group, lots of wrestling and leaning and casual cuddling, huddled together over a textbook or, more likely, a map. Remus seems to be breathing more than is normal, but they have just climbed a hill.

 

And Sirius can’t, he can’t do this, because he wants this man, and the weight of it is crushing – he wants a man, and that man is Remus. He is about to embarrass himself tremendously and he knows it. Remus will be too kind to reject him cruelly but Sirius can taste the impending rejection in his mouth, metallic and painful. So long as he doesn’t act, this is Schrödinger’s relationship, and he can still hold onto the idea that Remus might want him too without actually having to ask.

 

‘What are you thinking?’ Remus asks, very quiet. His hand around Sirius’s shoulder twitches.

 

‘Nothing important,’ Sirius whispers.

 

‘Liar,’ Remus says, without malice.

 

‘Am not.’

 

‘Are too.’

 

‘Nuh-uh.’

 

Remus shifts, suddenly, so that he is lying on his side, his face very close to Sirius’s. Sirius is still staring up at the sky. He suspects that in profile Remus can see both his obvious erection – throbbing now – and his chest heaving.

 

‘Sirius Black,’ Remus says, sounding exasperated.

 

‘What?’

 

‘Are you really going to make me do this?’

 

‘Do what?’

 

‘Fuck,’ Remus says. He sits up, taking his arm. Sirius’s head flops back onto the grass and he sits up too.

 

‘Moony?’

 

Remus is staring out at the city, a weird look on his face. Sirius can’t read it, even though he’s studying it. Then he feels Remus’s hand, touching his where it rests on his lap – just a finger, and then sliding further, to cover each of his fingers in turn, a slow unveiling of desire. Sirius’s heart nearly stops. He turns his palm over, and Remus runs a finger down it, then up his arm. Sirius shivers.

 

‘Some Gryffindor. I gave you every opportunity to be brave,’ Remus says, and then he leans over – ‘I’m only forgiving you because of the courage it took to wear that eyeliner’ – and he grins, so wickedly that Sirius can’t breathe – ‘Looks amazing, by the way’ -  and kisses him on the mouth.

 


End file.
